So I thought I knew all my crutches--self-pity, Diet Dr. Pepper, and God, generally in that order--but recently Dragoon reinstalled Firefox on my computer and I found out that all this time my life depended on AutoComplete and I didn't know it.

Oh, AutoComplete, how well ye knew me; like a long-time lover, you knew everything about me, finishing my sentences. We had a bond.

But NOW that lover has amnesia or something and AutoWhaa? isn't working. I haven't seen my bank account info in two weeks because I've only just now realized, after hundreds of times seeing AutoComplete auto-complete my sign-in name....I never actually READ THE NAME. My own name. The one that I presumably came up with and typed in at some point.

"I know my PIN!" I pled fruitlessly. "My Social Security number! Where all my best chocolate is stashed! Please, just let me see how broke I am!"

But, alas. To no avail.

It's such a cruel joke because I already wasn't a finisher, so this is kind of a cruel computer joke, that now I can't even finish my own name, for pity's sake.

I was helping Dragoon cut his hair today (no, really, this has something to do with the original point, I just didn't finish thinking out a good segue)

and he's got these corners on his otherwise very shapely head. He swears they're from his mom dropping him on his head multiple times. If you know my MIL, you know this is not just a possibility, but a probability.

But I was washing 5yo DS Moose's hair the other night after we got home from the pool and he's got the same corners Dragoon does. So, naturally, I start thinking phrenologically, as I am often wont to do, and I'm wondering what the corners mean.

They're fairly noticeable if you're running your hands over their heads, so does that mean they correlate with these guys' most salient personality characteristics? If so, then I name the left bump Extreme Dilbertitude, because Dragoon and Moose are both born engineers, and name the right bump Persistent Bloody-Mindedness.

Because Dragoon is a Finisher. I mean, even way long past when you should let something go. If he dropped his car keys in hot lava, he'd yell for me to get a heat suit for him and start poking sticks in there. He once walked into a pond full of fishhooks to retrieve an old hat our son had tossed in there in a fit of temporary insanity. His car is a 91 Toyota Corolla. He is all about the Not Quitting.

Whereas me, I'm more like....eh, this house is pretty dirty...let's just burn it down, collect the insurance money and start over. Race you to IKEA!

Yeah, that's me.

So I was feeling around my head and wondering, what does Lack of Finishing present as, phrenologically? I'm thinking an open fontanel.

See? Get it? Because it failed to close in infancy...?

no, you're right, not funny.

Well, I could work a little longer on making that joke work, maybe even work on it till it DOES work, but...well....you know me....

Our meeting with Dr. Glass from Seattle Children's Hospital put it all into perspective for us.

"You'll need to get her heart and kidneys checked for abnormalities, and since she's missing growth and development stuff, her ears and eyes," he told us.

"Okay....what are we checking for?" we asked. Astigmatism? I have that.

Dr. Glass paused, and said, "Well, some of the children with this deletion have been born without eyes....but she has them. So that's a wonderful start."

Dragoon and I were speechless for a minute, and then felt VERY cheerful. Because, yes, it's a wonderful start, isn't it? That she has eyes? Wouldn't you agree?

(Thank you, God, for her eyes. Thank you thank you thank you thank you)

We had a delightful Fourth-of-July celebration yesterday at Sacajawea State Park. You know how Dave Barry, in the course of discussing something an Alert Reader has sent in, will pause and say, "Which, incidentally, would make a great name for a rock band."

I'm that way about baby names. Yesterday I'm looking around at the Columbia River and the dugout canoes on display and musing "Sacajawea....that would be a cool middle name..." If I'm doing a yoga DVD, I'll think, "Fortitude! You could call him 'Fort' for short!"

My kids nipped that one in the bid, though. I bounced the name off 9yo Honeybee, who blinked innocently and said, "Fartitude? Farty-dude? Sure, I think that's PERFECT for a little brother."

Me: :/

Anyway. Cora Dove is doing luvverly. Many of the other children with her kind of deletions learned to walk only after several years, and usually require a walker. Many of them have only 10-word vocabularies by the age of 7 or 8.

Dove is behind, but only a little; she says five words already, and scoots everywhere. Her occupational therapists assure me she will definitely learn to walk. They've taken to calling her their miracle baby.

I even forget she should be crawling or walking by now, until I see the other babies at church born last summer, who are all walking. But since she looks about 5 months old, she still seems like a prodigy to be scooting at all.

And I have to agree. Pretty much every aspect of our struggle to have her, my pregnancy, her birth and her life since has been full of divine interventions. If I were Hannah, she's been my Samuel, especially in how intertwined her life and pre-life have been with my temple. Which is why she was named after our local temple; does it sound like I don't love her if I tell you I see her as a temple dedicate?

All of our children have been born uniquely with their own missions to fill. I'm just as delighted by the hearty, healthy ones who've loudly complained from Day One, as I am with the fragile ones, their tiny bodies almost obscured by the enormous spirit hazing the edges of the air around them.

Cora Dove certainly has that fingerprint on her, the good sort of changeling. What a year it's been.

So I don't know if I've told you all the medical fol-re-dol we've been through with little baby Dove. To recap, she was IUGR and was only 4 1/2 lbs. when she was born.

Then we had multitudinous nursing issues, and I took lots and lots of supplements and prescriptions and had a steamy 3-month fling with a hospital-grade breast pump. We were so in love I was never out of sight of that thing for more than a couple hours at a time. But, like all relationships based on physical needs, we grew to hate each other; Mr. Pump was sucking my will to live. I cut it off and, like so many do, spent the aftermath of the relationship with a bottle in hand.

But eventually Dove was able to nurse more and more, and I gave her fewer and fewer bottles. Which was AWESOME! And I would have enjoyed the feeling of Job Well Done! Except she still wasn't growing. In fact, her growth rate steadily slowed, from 1.6 last fall, to 0.22, to what it is now, 0.03. That growth rate refers to how fast she's putting on weight.

In other words, Dove was always tiny, but she's actually gotten tinier, even while she's grown bigger, if you get what I mean. She was under the 5% when born, which is okay, since a lot of babies are born tiny. But all babies are supposed to double their birth weight in 6-8 weeks; Dove didn't hit 8 or 9 pounds until she was, what, 6 months old?

And she's never made up for it. When her growth rate was supposed to accelerate, hers slowed down. She HAS grown--she's about 13 pounds now!--but she's also 10 months old and still hovering there way off to one side of the size bell curve.

So we switched formulas, and we had me change how I ate (more grains! moo!) and reduced my exercise (in case I was burning too many calories; may I laugh hollowly?) and took her to a pediatric hematologist from Seattle to check for stuff and had her tested for cystic fibrosis and then schlepped up to Spokane to see a pediatric gastroenterologist to check for metabolic disorders, and got the big medical shrug, and STILL she's clocking in at "Failure To Thrive" levels at every doctor's appointment.

In the meantime I'm taking her to occupational therapy for motor delays, because she's also not sitting up or crawling. Oh, she's SMART, don't worry, she's saying words and using some signs and she knows how to wrap us around her extraordinarily tiny pinkies. She's just not crawling.

So then we got her DNA tested.

And guess what?

We FOUND something.

Yays!

Dove has a chromosome deletion. On the 3rd chromosome. Normally deletions and trisomy are pretty hairy things, and we still haven't met with the genetic specialist from Seattle, who may tell us that her deletion may just make her bitty, or may lead to something tragic and life-destroying, like a fondness for Jerry Lewis movies.

But so far they think it's to blame. Here's the thing: it's really rare. They only know of, like, 7 or 8 other individuals with the same deletion, but it looks like failure to thrive and developmental delays are common among the other individuals.

Oh, it's just so good to know that instead of accidentally starving my daughter by feeding her incorrectly (which had always been the fallback before) actually I was unwillingly starving my daughter by giving her faulty genes.

No, actually, I'm kidding. I'm actually really relieved to have a diagnosis, something to tell insurance people, something to blame for the lack of growth, and a really cool conversation started to boot.

Also, we've got all these decisions to make now that we know eventually Dove will join the X-Men. What will her superhero name be? Battle-Dove? Does she have another power besides making beings twelve times her size obey her every command? Cape, or no cape?

My oldest daughter, Slayer, swears that the 3rd Chromasome is the Ugly Gene, and since Dove's missing one of hers, that's why she's twice as cute as most other kids. Ah, I had wondered. Good to know.

When he saw the punctures, scratches, and blood, Dragoon described it as "you pulled the pin out of a cat and it went off in your face."

We have a new kitty, courtesy of Dragoon's cousin. You may have picked up over the past few years that everyone in Dragoon's family swaps pets around like they're lending cordless drills or food dehydrators.

Dragoon's dad, my FIL, aka Dr. Death, his golden labs had puppies. He gave us a puppy and the mom, and gave another of the puppies to Dragoon's cousin T.

Then Dragoon's sister Bees gave us some kittens, one of which eventually lived (long story; I assure you I'm not in the habit of killing cats). Then she got another, couldn't keep it, gave it to my FIL, who gave it to Dragoon's cousin Ty, who then begged us to take it.

Then both cats get knocked up; briefly we have 2 large dogs and 10 cats in our little suburban split-entry. We gave one of the kittens to Dragoon's sister Bees, gave others away, kept two kittens for a total of only 4 cats.

Then having two dogs got to be a bit much. The mom, Goldie, is a chihuahua in a Lab body. Passive-aggressive, sneaky, disobedient, constantly peeing on stuff. We gave her to Dragoon's cousin T, who already has her other puppy and lives out in the country.

Then some of our cats disappeared. Dang coyotes. It's probably karma. Dragoon's dad killed enough coyotes in grad school that he earned both his tuition and his nickname Dr. Death.

Then Dragoon's cousin T. asked us to take one of his spare kitties.

It's sort of an intrafamily pet foster care system. But with coyotes sometimes.

Anyway, this new kitty needed a bath. Long-haired kitties sometimes miss a little something when they're bathing and in this case she missed a TON and I didn't want her dragging it all around my house. So I actually TRIED TO BATHE HER.

Actually turned on the sink and tried to stick her in. Yes, it was late at night, long after my good sense had gone to bed.

I can't remember where I was going with all this. But I did want to mention that when Dragoon saw my wounds--and they were many, friends; the new kitty smote me hip and thigh, not to mention chest and arms and neck--after making sympathetic noises the next thing he did was get out the camera. Seriously, honey?

We have learned by sad experience that it is the nature and disposition of almost all men, as soon as they get a monster truck, they will immediately begin to drive it everywhere, shouting at strangers.

So now you know what *I* have been doing today.

My FIL, aka my Great White Hunter-in-law, has gotten heartily sick of our Suburban's brokenness. He's paying Dragoon's cousin to fix the tranny and he's lending us his great big horse trailer-towing truck until it's done. We have a firm family policy that all members must be named. 12-year-old Chief named Grandpa's truck Monstro.

I used to be such a bright, sparky, optimistic little thing, but Dragoon has taught me well, and now my passive-aggressive kung-fu is strong. I have learned to sit on my hands and just wait around until someone gets so sick of the whatever in my life they FIX IT THEMSELVES. I'm surrounded by Type-A firstborn control freaks; this is pretty much the only way to deal with them and live.

So, I accepted the loan of the truck. Even though it's so BIG. I don't like driving big cars. The first month we had our Suburban I crept around at 30 mph and prayed tearfully out loud that I wouldn't kill anyone.

Today I've been in a funk, though, so I was feeling a little devil-may-care when I grabbed my pitons and Sherpa and climbed up into Monstro's cab. And then....

muauahahahahahHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!!!

I actually rolled down my window and yelled MY TRUCK IS BIGGER THAN YOURS! NIENER NIENER!

and then I CAN SEE YOUR SUBURBAN FROM HERE!

you know, mature stuff like that.

This was the bright spot in my day. My gas tank is empty, see. (cue violin) The last few weeks have been fairly high-pressure. You know how these things go. First kids take turns having some kind of rotovirus, then there are home improvements to be frantically half-finished before company comes.

Company for us was Dragoon's brother, the pro MMA fighter, and his wife and 5 kids. Then, an hour after they left to go back home, I took Dragoon to the airport for a week-long business trip.

Then Dragoon got back just in time for the ward to descend--Elder's Quorum likes to TELL guys to take their wives out, but aren't so keen on, like, backing off enough so that guys have the spot in their schedule to--and now, today.

My metaphorical gas tank is totally empty right now. I don't even have the strength to feel guilty about it. I took care of 11 kids and 3 other adults for a few days, then homeschooled the 6 kids while Dragoon was gone, and now he's gone again fixing the car and I am so DONE.

Checked out. Flown. Done.

There's no use lecturing an empty gas tank, or throwing a conference talk on endurance and self-discipline at it, or nudging it with one bare grubby foot to make it read its scriptures so it'll get up and get back to work. Driving on an empty tank is like trying to drive without oil in your engine. It doesn't matter how mad at myself or how upset at me someone else might get. Today my emotional car is just not gonna run.

And, thank you Murphy's Law, after years of perfect daily hygiene, what happens the one day I'm too depressed to bother showering and putting on clean clothes? Why, of course. That's the day the world beats a path to the door.

I'm telling you. YEARS of dressing up in makeup and skirts to make a stern show of professionalism to myself about the Importance of Home Schooling and Home Making, and can't find a person to talk to to save my life.

Today, in the stained t-shirt and dog-hair hoodie, today's the day I finally meet my neighbors as they bring back my wandering 4-year-old. And it's what I'll be wearing tonight, when I accept my Mother Of The Year award, right after serving my kids congealed ramen and applesauce for supper.

If I spend the day showing my kids LOLcats, that's *like* homeschooling, right?

Wait, isn't this spring break? When all the normal people have some time off? Does that mean I get to have some time off too? I hope so. Since apparently I'm taking time off, whether anybody likes it or not.

So Dragoon is going out to lunch with a friend, and I am here at home with my sick, homeschooled kids.

Again.

I have been thinking about Lent, and perversity. I had decided for Lent to give up "eating people"--apparently, there's a Spanish phrase that sounds like eating people, but it means gossiping or slandering them.

So I decided to give up speaking poorly of others for Lent.

Of course my life promptly presents me with 101 opportunities to speak ill of others. From what I can see around this huge beam in my eye, I'd be well within my self-righteous rights to give everybody a piece of my mind.

It's a good thing I didn't give up complaining in general for Lent, or else I may have nothing to say. This blog probably wouldn't even exist.

So, I was musing about it--and it's not like I've SUCCEEDED in not saying anything bad about people; it's more like I go ahead an do it anyway, and then I remember that I'm, like, supposed to be trying to be good, and it wipes the smirk off my face, until 10 minutes later when I do it again.

I guess it's a start.

But, gluttony--what IS gluttony? Because I am a total hobbit. A previously anorexic Hobbit. Food's a big deal for me.

The prevailing change-your-eating-lifestyle advice out there says that one must be more mindful about what one eats. Savor every bite, appreciate the flavors.

But that somehow sounds more gluttonous that what I just did for lunch, that is, mindlessly eating half of an orphaned soggy bowl of Kix. Is mindless eating gluttony?

Maybe it's eating without gratitude? I know I feel something akin to gratitude when I eat horrible things, like Cool Ranch Doritoes. Or the first sip of a Diet Coke on a hard day. These things are legal drugs--obviously; otherwise I wouldn't like them so much.

I don't know if I want to spoil these questions with actual research. Asking myself this kind of stuff makes me feel smart and important and distracts me from what I'm putting in my mouth. That's a necessity when you're eating soggy Kix.

So, I told Dragoon to have fun on his man-date, don't worry about me, I'll just be locked in my bathroom, drinking Listerine...I'm fine....but if he could see his way clear to picking up chicken tenders and a Diet Dr. Pepper from Carl's, Jr., that would be an act of mercy. I swear they brine those chicken tenders in crack.

My kids have been sick for two WEEKS now. Two WEEKS. And I don't mean midly impolite wet coughing, because we've all had chest crud for the last month. I mean full-blown, where's-the-bucket, make-a-bed-on-the-sofa, DVDs-going-at-all-hours, we're-outta-Sprite SICK.

My high school health teacher was an R.N. and she always said everyone has their kryptonite body fluid. All of them are gross, but everyone has one they really can't stand. She told us hers was sputum, and that whenever she needed to deal with a patient with a lung problem, she'd suit up with face mask and gloves.

Mine is fecal matter. It is no accident (ha) that its existence forms the basis for swear words in many languages. Coincidentally, they happen to be my favorite swears, too. I usually agree with the statement that swear words are what people use when they don't bother using their brain. I feel that way about the F-bomb and do NOT tolerate using the Lord's name in vain in my home.

But....excremental words...well...they seem so inappropriately appropriate sometimes. Because bad things happen, often cyclically, usually as a consequence of earlier actions. They're all over the place, including on the bottom of your shoe. They stink, and we are all guilty of perpetrating them.

So. It's not just a cussword, it's a metaphor. When I say that word, I am feeling, "Oh, the mortal condition, how deeply it dismays me." I'm just using a more contracted form that I can say through gritted teeth.

Oh, and in French! I love saying it in French. Because then when I say, "Pardon my French" I really mean it! And in German. I am a polyglot potty mouth.

Dragoon's body fluid he can't stand is vomit. When our oldest was little, if there was vomiting going on, he was outta there. "I'm off to the Holiday Inn! Let me know when the rotavirus lets up!"

It's not because he's precious. He would immediately get sick, too. I mean, he really couldn't be around it. You remember the blueberry pie scene in Stand By Me? Nuff said.

I used to have a total OCD fecal-contamination thing about poop--I mean, scrubbing the toilet meant 30 minutes of work, followed by Clorox-laden purification rituals, repeated handwashings, mild sobbing and nightmares.

We agreed to swap. I clean up the puke, he cleans up the poo. Isn't that love? Makes me want to sing a hymn. That's how it's been for the last 12 years, up until we had Dove.

Lately we've both noticed that we are just too tired to care. 6 kids, 2 cats, 1 dog, countless body-fluid messes. We're just too tired to be neurotic.

I knew apathy had to have an upside! (I just didn't bother looking for it.)

Last night, after Day 15 of children throwing up in the home, we were eating dinner in the dining room while Honeybee repeatedly, noisily was sick in the living room.

I sat bolt upright and looked at Dragoon, waiting...for the reaction...

He calmly looked back at me, eating his soup. "What?" He was totally fine. It was amazing. It was like when Hellen Keller suddenly starts signing "water". The man just sat there....EATING. And smiling.

Marriage and family truly are refining, educational things.

I've gotten better too. Why, I can take care of poo accidents now without washing my hands more than 3 times and without crying! Or yelling! Well, I don't yell as MUCH. Not about the poo, anyway.

We're both glad that we've relaxed, because we both can use the extra bandwidth.

Maybe this is what farmers feel like? "Another day, another cowpat"? After awhile, it's just so much energy to freak out about another blob of nameless whatever dripping down your front.

I don't know how I'd do in an uncontrolled environment, though, without disposal mechanisms for taking care of poop. As I was writing this post, the universe thought it would be funny to make my washer stop working. $#!*

So I was thinking that this year I should celebrate Lent. Wait. What's the verb for Lent? Observe. I should observe Lent. As holidays go, Easter is my favorite and my best. I expect fasting will deepen the Paschal joy, you know? I read a lot of Frederica Mathewes-Green, who's Orthodox, and Elizabeth Scalia (aka The Anchoress) and Betty Duffy, who are Catholic. I enjoy what they write, and am inspired by their observance of Lent. I'd love to try it, too.

So I Googled to find guidelines for Lenten fasting, and this is what I got:

From Canon Law

Those who are excused from fast or abstinence: Besides those outside the age limits, those of unsound mind, the sick, the frail, pregnant or nursing women according to need for meat or nourishment, manual laborers according to need, guests at a meal who cannot excuse themselves without giving great offense or causing enmity and other situations of moral or physical impossibility to observe the penitential discipline.

This really isn't so different from how I've understood how fasting's taught in the LDS faith.

Tempting as it is to linger over "unsound mind", I qualify for exemption under "nursing mother". Especially since I'm a nursing mother to a sick baby, and it seems like any kind of caloric deprivation, no matter how small, directly lowers my milk supply.

I need to find something else to fast or abstain from.

Dragoon walked in while I was brainstorming. We are ships passing in the night--he stays up until 4 am, shooting zombies; I get up at 4 am to be a nursing zombie--and I got his input, whether I liked it or not, on what I could fast from.

Ideas:

1. Chocolate. This one seems like an uninspired no-brainer until I thought about it, and realized just how much chocolate I EAT lately. It's, like, a daily indulgence. I mean, we're talking, like, one Hershey's Kiss here, but it IS every single day.

2. Sleep. I love it, I can't have it when I want it. But this is a condition common to motherhood, especially nursing motherhood. So it's not really very virtuous or special, is it?

3. Sushi. See #2....but that doesn't stop me from being sad about not having it.

4. Wearing the color blue. No, really. I am a homeschooling mother of 6. You have any idea how much denim is in my wardrobe? I seriously would have very little to wear. Dragoon perked up at that idea, but I honestly don't see how this could be helpful, unless I had some non-blue sackcloth to wear instead.

5. Resentment. I mentioned this one to Dragoon because I thought it was such a great idea. He's like, "Yeah, you could try that, but I bet you'd resent it. And recursive resentment is way worse than the regular kind."

I love the IDEA of abstaining from resentment but I have no idea how to go about that. It's pretty easy to know the procedure for abstaining from chocolate. You don't put it in your face.

But what am I feeding my face, emotionally speaking, that makes for resentment? It's a worthy question, but maybe not one I can answer with a fast at this moment.

6. Cussing. Does this even count? I mean, it's sort of something I should be abstaining from anyway. And I have to admit, sometimes...I don't really care enough about not swearing. I feel like I have bigger fish to fry, like the resentment issue, and possibly the sushi one. (get it? fish...?)

Speaking of fish, there's...

7. Fishing for compliments and reassurance. I think I've gotten better about this. No, actually I don't. I'm likely as bad as ever about this one. But excoriating myself about it would probably prompt some kind soul to reassure me that I'm not that bad.

You SEE how deep this kind of thing can go. It's like a Mandelbrot set of insecurity.

8. Plants vs. Zombies, Virtual Villagers, and other mental junk food.

9. Urban fantasy, though I read Patricia Briggs and Ilona Andrews' stuff only a couple times a year now. That's, like, the opposite of fasting.

10. Yelling at the dog. Thing is, he weighs more than most of my older kids combined. Most of him means well, except for his tail. Sometimes he NEEDS to be yelled at.

11. Yelling at my kids. Noble, but...realistic? Is there some way I could contract 40-day laryngitis? And does it count if I'm still making mad faces at them and mouthing "You are so going to get it"?

(Why is it that the funnest questions to ask are rhetorical?)

12. Non-classical music. It's hard to control what goes into my ears, though. This concept is drummed home to me every time Dragoon listens to Cascada. Sigh.

13. The Internet. But...but....but but but! But how will I stay in touch with other Lenten fasters? Observers. "Faster" probably isn't a word. And how will I shop? Or talk to my friends? Or....or...this is probably a really good one.

14. My contacts. I HATE my glasses. I think I might rather wear a hair shirt than my glasses. Having to wear them for 40 days would certainly drive me crazy, if that's the metric for a successful Lent.

Here's my question or issue or statement or idea or whatever, and it's probably unoriginal.

I prefer to look at things positively. Instead of focusing on what I can't have, I'd rather focus on something better to have instead.

But I honestly don't know how this plays out.

For instance, instead of thinking, "Arrrgh! No beef for 40 DAYS!" I can think, "Yay, time to eat beans and tuna fish."

Or instead of trying to eradicate a personal failing, I can concentrate on cultivating a personal strength. Like....like...what's the opposite of swearing? I can say nice things to people. Or try to speak more holy words. Or something.

Though if the holy words come out of the same mouth as all the other usual words, then I defile the holy ones...or something. Didn't Paul talk about this? Paul probably talked about this.

That's the problem. I feel convinced that I'm going to shy away from whatever is really good for me. Here I am, needing to cleanse the inner vessel, and I've got all these bottles of Inner Vessel Cleaner in front of me, and I'm reading the ingredients on the label, and discarding each one.

This one's too abrasive; this one's too reactive; this one can only be handled with gloves; this one doesn't have enough chocolate in, etc.

My instinct here is to want to be told what to fast from.

But is there some crucial spiritual component in choosing to inflict a fast upon myself, that would be missing from a fast in obedience to another's direction?

It crosses my mind that I could fast from over-thinking things.

But I can't even imagine how to enact that one. And I'm guessing I shouldn't think too much about it.

Is it just me, or are tv shows like someone lots of people are married to at once? Like we define ourselves as tribes aligned with the TV shows we watch.

So that when a show ends, everyone's cut adrift, ripe for rebound relationships with spinoffs and casual dates with our ex via syndication?

Last night Dragoon and I watched the last eppy of Stargate: SG-1.

We are Netflix Amish; we do have a tv, and do have a DVD player, but don't have rabbit ears or cable or anything else. So the only things you can watch in our house are the discs we own, and we like never buy discs, so if you don't like Stargate, Firefly, or Miyazaki, you are outta luck.

Or Thomas. We have a LOT of Thomas the Tank Engine.

But anyway. Stargate. Yes.

Did the end strike anyone else as a little rushed? All this big fanfare and overture....then a tiny little finale?

This may be way too geeky, old or obscure a reference, but if any of you played the old Sierra King's Quest games...you remember the music that played whenever King Graham died? The first few sonorous bars of that famous funeral dirge (I want to say Mozart) which then morphs into the Looney Tunes "that's all, folks!" musical flourish.

That's what the last episode was like. "Tha-a-a-a-at's all, folks!"

Which is ok. Clearly SG-1 had become the redheaded stepchild of the Stargate oeuvre. Witness the terrible special effects in the episode with the dragon. It was like Clash of the Titans all over again. I think the dragon drawn from an S on HomeStar Runner was better. ("The S is for sucks!")

Anyway. The only thing more loserly than watching TV is talking about watching TV. Unless you are talking about TV...and saying stuff a hundred other people have probably already said before.